The yellow fog did not simply settle over Liu Er’s house; it claimed it. By late evening, the world beyond the porch had ceased to exist. The thick, mustard-colored vapor pressed against the windowpanes and seeped through the gaps in the doorframe, bringing with it a smell of sulfur and ancient, sun-dried musk. It was so dense that Liu Er could not see the fence just ten feet away. He was trapped in a small, square island of wood and mud, isolated from the rest of the village, the plains, and the sky.
Inside, the heat was stagnant. Liu Er sat on the floor, his back against the heavy chest he had used to block the door. He held his rifle across his lap, but the weapon felt like a toy—a useless piece of cold iron against a threat that had no physical form to shoot. His breathing was shallow
